


Not Alone

by Izzy_Grinch



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, and he's gonna help Flint to cope with this darkness, are finally running away, bc there's Silver now, demons of the past, god Flint's so in love, love scene without graphic depiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flint and Silver are alone in captain's cabin, the night is dark and full of feels (yeah, the terrors too, but Silver makes them vanish).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Не один](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564940) by [Izzy_Grinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzy_Grinch/pseuds/Izzy_Grinch). 



Silver scrapes the smoked brown planks, but under the layer of soot, in the plies of the dry wood, everything is black as in the depths of the most pitch-dark night, when it’s impossible to sight neither a lighthouse nor a beacon on the allied lugger; dark as in the hold of the devastated and sunken vessel.

The ship is being cradled by the waves, the floor and the extinguished chandelier, being stuck all over with solidified teardrops of candles which have been mourning the past, are swaying, and the tight curls of the flowing hair are swaying too; and the sea breathes, wailing, and the moaning man, filled with the sun, feels like ocean, having so many similarities with that element: from his waist’s arch, which is smooth like the foam surfs, rolling on the shore; to the warm blue, which surrounds his fidgety pupils and is cloudless like midday hot, − and still rejecting the element so zealously that it seems like storms and tempests should have thrown this malapert recalcitrancy down in the seething abyss long ago. But even the ocean is helpless, being charmed.

The palm places between the bronze nimble shoulder blades as rightly as if it buries into the wet velvet sand, and the round muscles under the skin, which is so responsive to the touching, are the lukewarm pebble stones, caressed by the tide, and the sparse moles on the skin are the tiny shells, which were refused by water, and Flint collects them, all and everyone, with his lips, and leans his forehead against the tense shoulder, and hears just how something rumbles in his ears, compared only with the whole set of cannons’ firing from the great Spanish warship.

The billow of the scents, increased a hundredfold and having no place in the cramped Flint’s chest, covers him: the styptic one of the scuffed belts and coarsened boots’ leather; the spicy of the pages, serried densely, and books, which were saved from the gutted cabins; the sticky of the steel and rusting metal; the caustic of the salt; the itching of the worn fabrics; the scalding of the sweat, which traces the back with its drops and burns the scratches, still unhealed; the weightless of the prunella colored strands; and the overwhelming, the smashing flavor of the body, which is not discarnate like those ghostly silhouettes, stepping close ahead, reach out your hand − and they will fade like the hope of people trapped in the dead calm; the body, the brassy gloss of which is more genuine than the most bitter truth. Flint is choking. His reality happens to be painted with the deathly-gray tones of his dreams so often that Flint’s afraid to cross the point of no return one day and drown into the pearly shimmer of his pained memories, trying to clutch on the sacred reflections of those, who have no strengths to hold on the surface the burden of his soul and bones, loaded of flesh.

Flint judders heavily, he clenches the real, physical shoulders in front of him and turns Silver to assuage his frenetic, almost excruciating desire to see Silver’s face, every feature, every shadow, every undertint of his changing emotions. Silver is surprised and confused, but the azure of his gaze is so incredibly bright, so fluttering and full of life that Flint’s eyes unwittingly well up with tears, and, fell on his knees, Flint presses his cheek to the searing belly. And if the deck beneath his feet is the raft, which hit an inhabited land after the infinite forlorn drifting, than the fingers, gently sliding along his ears and nestling on his bristly temples, are the voice which hailed the wanderer, who had been straying, lost, guided by his doubts and fears.


End file.
